


Make Yourself Some Friends or You'll Be Lonely

by Sroloc_Elbisivni



Category: Nomad of Nowhere (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Jossed, Nomad is sad and alone, Pre-Canon, Written mid-season 1, the Briar Patch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sroloc_Elbisivni/pseuds/Sroloc_Elbisivni
Summary: Nomad, at the beginning of his time in the briar patch, and the trouble with having to make your own friends.





	Make Yourself Some Friends or You'll Be Lonely

 

The thorns and thickets had grown since the last time Nomad had come home, but at the center of the briar patch the cabin was still there, on its patch of fenced-in stony ground.

The lights were out, one of the windows had broken in, and a fine layer of dust had settled over everything inside, but the bed was still made and the broom was still leaning up against the kitchen table, right where—where—

Where it had been left.

Nomad picked it up and used it to sweep off one of the chairs and sit down. He leaned the broom back up against the table, smoothed out the green tablecloth, and folded his hands in his lap, looking around the cabin.

A place for everything and everything in its place. Even him. Especially him.

The house itself hadn’t changed in size. It was still small, for all it felt so empty. That was fine. Nomad was feeling pretty small himself, lately.

* * *

 

Nomad stayed in the cabin for three whole weeks, and by the end he had counted every single piece of thatch in the ceiling and every brick in the fireplace and every knot in the floorboards.

Four times.

Finally, he had had enough. He had to get out.

The briars had grown enough to shield him and everything within from the outside world, so he grabbed a stick and a snack and started walking.

There were all kinds of plants here, plants Nomad hadn’t seen in months or years. He had thought they were gone.

In the case of one particularly spiky, venomous specimen, he had  _hoped_  they were gone. Puncturing his own hand to get the goo out was just as bad as it had been the first time.

He left those where they were, anyways. They deserved to be remembered somewhere outside of books and drawings.

Nomad got so caught up in walking, watching all the plants and looking for animals underneath, that he almost stepped over the edge of the briars before he knew it.

He just managed to catch his foot before it hit the sand of the desert outside.

He stared at it for a long moment, then out at the horizon, then back at the ground.

All that space. All that room to just keep going, to find settlements somewhere, to meet—to—to—

Nomad turned around and high-tailed it back for the clearing and the cabin and the neatly made bed.

This time, it took him four weeks to come out.

* * *

 

He ended up making a sign, with paint slapped together from some of the local plants and a stash of oil behind the house. It wasn’t like he’d need it—the oasis was insulated from the desert chill, and he’d grown used to the dark.

When the sign was finished, he carried it out to the edge of the briar patch and hammered it into the ground. A warning and a reminder, right at the side of the path where no one could miss it. Not even heartsick magicians.

He didn’t look back, not wanting to see the horizon, but he could practically feel the red words that faced the briar patch burning into his back.

DO NOT LEAVE.

* * *

 

Nomad had sworn off magic. He had known that going in, that it was something he couldn’t keep, not here. Not like this, not after…everything.

He had been alone before. He could do it again. This wasn’t—this wasn’t supposed to be somewhere he was  _happy_.

There were so many times when the broom, or the kettle, or a chair was just out of reach and he found himself raising his hands to clap, automatically, to bring it closer, but he stopped himself every single time.

That was what had gotten him in this mess in the first place. He couldn’t—he  _wouldn’t_ —do it again.

But sometimes the briar patch was just…so…empty.

There were the hippos, of course, in the hidden oasis, but the hippos didn’t care about him, not like his creations had. They didn’t make for very good company. And trying to cuddle with one would undoubtedly end in disaster.

Nomad had sometimes been sad his creations couldn’t talk, but seeing a hippo yawn had forced him to consider the logistics of mouths. And teeth. And biting.

Eyes and hands and legs seemed like more than enough, when he thought about it.

And he thought about it more and more as the days turned into weeks turned into months. He had explored the entire briar patch, over and over again, and still couldn’t shake the feeling of intense, brutal, empty loneliness.

He had wandered for  _years_  before. Why was this all getting to him like this?

There was one particular clearing—well, more of a crater, but who cared about logistics like that? Not Nomad. There was one particular clearing, full of little rocks, the ones that had been too small to build into a chimney or a wall or a well. Just lots of little stones, and one big one. Lying on the ground. Existing.

Nomad was staring at them right now, trying to think of all the reasons it would be a bad idea to pick one up.

If he picked one up, he would want to hold it for a while, because they looked so nice and misshapen and smooth. If he held one for a while, he would want to take it with him. If he took it with him, he would want to bring it to life.

And he wasn’t doing that anymore.

He wasn’t.

He picked up one particularly lovely rock, and tried to think of why that was, again.

It was just one rock, right? Just one little river stone. It couldn’t hurt anyone. Not really.

Nomad set it carefully down on the ground, and for the first time in over a year, just…clapped.

Once. Twice.

The little rock opened little eyes, and blinked up at him, and then the legs and arms popped out.

Nomad held very, very still. It was alive now. It could know things, like what a monster he was. It could choose things, like running away.

But the little rock just trotted over to Nomad and climbed on top of his boot, settling down and staring up at him.

Slowly and carefully, so he didn’t disturb the little rock, Nomad lowered himself to the ground, not daring to even twitch his toes.

He and the rock looked at each other for a long time.

* * *

 

A week later, Nomad had brought every single rock in the clearing to life. Even the big one.

Most of them were content to stay right where they were, after saying hello, but the first one he had brought to life—affectionately dubbed “Rocky” in Nomad’s head—followed him around everywhere. He started picking it up and tucking it into his sash or his shirt or a pocket or the brim of his hat, just to keep it from jumping up and down and stumbling everywhere as it tried to keep up.

Nomad figured it would get bored, eventually, and want to go back to the clearing where it had come from, but for now, he was just happy to have the company.

The house was still small, and the oasis was still big, and Nomad still couldn’t talk to anyone, but—well.

There were so many, many things that were worse when you were all alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. Well.  
> I have never before written for something that hasn't even finished its first season yet. I'm prepared to be spectacularly jossed.   
> Nomad is my lonely sweet child who's trying so hard and I love them but even I get the feeling this won't be canon.


End file.
